When I married into The Smith family almost 16 years ago, I felt lucky and excited to be surrounded by such a close-knit group of kin. Being the youngest of only two girls, I had no idea what my future would look like with six sisters-in-law, a brother-in-law, and over 20 first cousins--just on one side.
I have to admit, it was a bit overwhelming at first. I was used to one person talking at a time, and I was certain this family had a defective “hearing” gene since I was the only one who seemed to have trouble tuning out all the excess noise. Having lots of girls all sharing one bathroom meant scrambling for mirror time on Sunday mornings. And getting that privacy one sometimes needs didn’t always come easy.
But there was never a loss for good food, a game of pepper, or a sweet little girl to fix my hair. Now they’ve all grown up. Even Little Robyn--only one year old when I started coming around--is old enough to drive.
Yes, much time has passed--rather quickly, I might add--and with it has come the creation of new memories and stories which are exclusive only to this unique and one of a kind family. Tales are often told about and among siblings of any family, but especially a large one, and these folks are no different. But the stories I have locked away as lessons for myself come from the creators of this fine group, Randy’s parents, Larry and Donna Smith.
It’s hard to believe either of them are old enough to have been married for 40 years this Sunday. But I guess that’s how it works when you marry as a teenager. The two began their life together in a foreign country during the Vietnam War, and with only ten short months to be newlyweds, as their firstborn, my husband Randy, arrived on a Tuesday in July to the smell of sauerkraut and Weiner schnitzel. OK, maybe not. But it was Germany, nonetheless.
Starting out as they did, these young kids no doubt had to rely on each other in a way some couples never know. I can’t imagine being nineteen and having my first child on an Air Force base in a foreign country with my own mother hundreds of miles away. Lesson number one: All they had was God and each other, whether they realized it or not.
Seven more kids, five children-in-law, and eleven grandbabies later, they are still married--in spite of us all.
In the sixteen years that I’ve been a part of this family, I’ve learned many things about how to be a Christian, a spouse and a parent. I’ve been touched by the deep devotion they each have to their kids, their grandkids, and their God. And I have been made into a better person simply by being granted membership into their amazing family.
So what kind of things have I learned from being a Smith? Here are a select few:
*Worship, work, play. In that order.
*Sometimes, a mother just needs to yell.
*Spare the rod, spoil the child.
*To some, it might seem completely insane that a grown man would spend five full minutes totally destroying a lawn chair--kicking, throwing, bending its metal--all for pinching the flesh of his precious child. It might seem insane until one has a child of her own.
*Silence can be deadly, but sometimes it’s better than the alternative.
*Planning is for sissies.
*This too shall pass.
*Being an accountant is a lot like coaching baseball only harder. Nobody provides a bag of seeds or a covered set of bleachers so that willing wives can be a part, cheering their mates on to the end of another successful season.
*Working hard is not an option.
*There is still good to be gotten from a twice-used Ziploc. Waste not, want not.
*Go with the flow.
*His mama’s biscuits may take 10 years to perfect, but they’ll never be as perfect as his mama’s.
*Nothing that we do is too trivial to God.
*We may not always be able to anticipate our partner’s next move, but we can always be there when he makes it.
*Nothing works better than prayer.
I said before that I felt lucky to be a part of such an amazing family. Another lesson I’ve learned? None of us are really lucky. We are blessed!
And that’s All in a day’s Work!
Life and chronicles of a young, formerly-professional administrative mother who quit her job as a high school principal to stay home and raise her two young boys.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The turtle with no name
When you’re a mom with two boys, you do things that would once have seemed completely out of character. Top of the list? Taking care of a turtle. I balk at calling it a pet since the boys won’t name it. They don’t feed it. Now that the new has worn off, they scarcely look at the thing as they charge past him and into the kitchen for a snack.
But I, the Queen Nurturer of man, child and beast, find myself changing out water and searching for bugs just so this scaly little reptile won’t die on my pea-green countertop.
He declines to eat the tiny creatures I leave scattered across his terrain. Maybe he’s particular—or just insulted that he is expected to eat day old beetles or flies squashed beyond recognition. He refuses to stoop to my offer of road kill. I revise my tactics.
At night, when the kids are in bed, I find myself turning on the porch light just to attract a few bugs…ones un-grotesque enough for me to maim with my hot pink fly swatter and carry into the house for his supper. Oh, the irony.
And delivering dinner straight to his jaw-clenching little mouth with a silver plated pair of tweezers is not good enough for me. I then feel compelled to watch him chomp, rip, mutilate his delicacies until he has swallowed every bite and looks up at me for more. It’s riveting. And a little twisted.
So maybe it’s no surprise that on the first day of school, when I returned to an empty, quiet house, it wasn’t my boys I sat down to write about. It was my turtle. My turtle with no name.
The turtle with no name
Who knew I had such an affinity for turtles.
Tough and strong on the outside.
Soft and saggy in the middle.
Indifferent little box turtle, captured and contained in a sad replica of his natural habitat.
Dirt from between the barns.
Dead leaves from the azalea bushes.
Broken sticks and twigs fallen from the decaying old elm out front.
Small, scared, hiding under the fallen foliage like a camouflaged soldier ready to attack…
Yet he doesn’t.
He barely moves, except to pull his head back inside his shell. Safe. Protected.
Tiny little turtle, burrowing himself into the cool of the dirt, searching for a break from the heat, from his life.
He eats not while we are watching; his privacy, he doth relish.
A flailing fly is in no danger from him. A baby beetle, begging for his last breath will be granted mercy from this peculiar creation.
When the house is quiet and I am alone, I hear him scratching. Marching through the downed brush. Valiantly scaling the dying vegetation that must seem to him like mountains, deserts, the barren landscape that is his new world.
Is he searching for sustenance? Craving companionship? Or is he desperately clawing, fighting to set himself free from his existence, this pseudo residence fashioned from an old foil baking pan.
I stop to watch him, hover over his world. He can sense my presence, stopping him in his tracks, retreating to the safety of the one place no one else can enter.
What an amazing creature, this turtle with no name. He asks for nothing. He complains not. He sustains himself by water and pure will and through the exquisite design of his flawless Maker.
Who knew I had such an affinity for turtles.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
But I, the Queen Nurturer of man, child and beast, find myself changing out water and searching for bugs just so this scaly little reptile won’t die on my pea-green countertop.
He declines to eat the tiny creatures I leave scattered across his terrain. Maybe he’s particular—or just insulted that he is expected to eat day old beetles or flies squashed beyond recognition. He refuses to stoop to my offer of road kill. I revise my tactics.
At night, when the kids are in bed, I find myself turning on the porch light just to attract a few bugs…ones un-grotesque enough for me to maim with my hot pink fly swatter and carry into the house for his supper. Oh, the irony.
And delivering dinner straight to his jaw-clenching little mouth with a silver plated pair of tweezers is not good enough for me. I then feel compelled to watch him chomp, rip, mutilate his delicacies until he has swallowed every bite and looks up at me for more. It’s riveting. And a little twisted.
So maybe it’s no surprise that on the first day of school, when I returned to an empty, quiet house, it wasn’t my boys I sat down to write about. It was my turtle. My turtle with no name.
The turtle with no name
Who knew I had such an affinity for turtles.
Tough and strong on the outside.
Soft and saggy in the middle.
Indifferent little box turtle, captured and contained in a sad replica of his natural habitat.
Dirt from between the barns.
Dead leaves from the azalea bushes.
Broken sticks and twigs fallen from the decaying old elm out front.
Small, scared, hiding under the fallen foliage like a camouflaged soldier ready to attack…
Yet he doesn’t.
He barely moves, except to pull his head back inside his shell. Safe. Protected.
Tiny little turtle, burrowing himself into the cool of the dirt, searching for a break from the heat, from his life.
He eats not while we are watching; his privacy, he doth relish.
A flailing fly is in no danger from him. A baby beetle, begging for his last breath will be granted mercy from this peculiar creation.
When the house is quiet and I am alone, I hear him scratching. Marching through the downed brush. Valiantly scaling the dying vegetation that must seem to him like mountains, deserts, the barren landscape that is his new world.
Is he searching for sustenance? Craving companionship? Or is he desperately clawing, fighting to set himself free from his existence, this pseudo residence fashioned from an old foil baking pan.
I stop to watch him, hover over his world. He can sense my presence, stopping him in his tracks, retreating to the safety of the one place no one else can enter.
What an amazing creature, this turtle with no name. He asks for nothing. He complains not. He sustains himself by water and pure will and through the exquisite design of his flawless Maker.
Who knew I had such an affinity for turtles.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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